Free Slap Your Sides by M. E. Kerr

their relatives in internment camps! I’m doing this paper for school,” she said. “It’s about this Japanese American unit training at Camp Shelby in Mississippi.”
    â€œI read about them,” I said. Lizzie’d sent Mom an article from the New York Journal-American about Negroes who had their own unit, and Japs who did. She’d written across the top, Show this to Tommy and Jubal. Ask them if they’re content to let the colored and the Japs fight our war for them.
    Daria said, “Where did you read about them? I have just this little United Press release from The Citizen .”
    When I told her about the newspaper article my aunt had sent, Daria said she’d give anything to read it.
    â€œI’ll bring it over tonight,” I said. “Do you ever listen to ‘Your Hit Parade’?”
    â€œCouldn’t you just slip it in our mailbox?” she asked.
    â€œSure, I could. But do you ever listen to ‘Your Hit Parade’? I listen to it sometimes.” I listened to it a lot less since the songs became all about the war.
    â€œI always listen to it,” Daria said, “but it’s not a good idea for you to come over tonight.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œIt just isn’t.”
    â€œYou’re going to listen to it with someone?”
    â€œI’m going to listen to it with my mother.”
    She was putting her mackinaw on and flipping a red scarf over her shoulder.
    â€œWouldn’t you rather listen to it with me?”
    â€œMaybe I would, Jubal,” she said, “but I can’t.” She was on her feet, and I was too. Behind her there was a poster of a dead paratrooper’s body settling to earth, his head hanging, eyes shut, his toes just starting to drag across the ground. There was blood on his jacket and his hand. Underneath the drawing of him were the words: CARELESS TALK GOT THERE FIRST.
    Daria waited until we got outside.
    â€œJubal, don’t you ever wonder why I want to come here when we get back from Doylestown? We don’t live that far away from each other, and I make much better coffee.”
    â€œI just thought…I thought it was more private than right under your parents’ noses. I thought—”
    She cut me off, speaking very fast. “Daddy doesn’t think it’s good for me to be around you people too much,” she said.
    â€œYou mean the Shoemakers? Is that what you mean?”
    â€œHe likes your mom and your dad, and he’d probably like you and Tommy too, but Bud is another matter. Bud has changed things, Jubal. A lot of people don’t like what he’s done. It’s not just us!”
    â€œI know that!”
    â€œI even feel guilty about my Saturdays with you at theHarts’. Hope Hart is planning meals for conscientious objectors! And then there’s Abel. Abel is breaking the law”—she waved her hand like a wand—“just ignoring the draft!”
    â€œHe’s a very orthodox Quaker, Daria.” I never thought I’d defend Abel.
    â€œHe’s a traitor, Jubal! One of the finest things I ever did in my entire life was to mark your store windows! For once I was doing something about the war! I wasn’t being careful or being discreet because of Daddy! I should have kept right on!”
    â€œI’m glad you didn’t. It’s my father you were hurting, not Bud.”
    â€œNow Daddy says it isn’t good business for me to fraternize with you. He thinks I run into you on the bus and we talk. He would hate it that I meet you at the Harts’, that we go for coffee after!”
    I don’t remember what we talked about the rest of the way home. She was good at babbling. She was also liable to burst into a few bars of song, and I remember that day it was “As Time Goes By,” which was from the movie Casablanca. Tommy and I had gone to it together, and afterward Tommy kept imitating Humphrey Bogart